I know what some of you are thinking: “Surely, Mickey Z., humans aren’t as bad as you make them sound. They can’t possibly be the deadliest species of all time. Humans aren’t more dangerous than, say, a T. Rex, right?”

To you, I ask: In all the millions of years dinosaurs roamed this planet, did a single stegosaurus ever feel the need to invent nuclear weapons?

Even today’s “monsters” are far less harmful than we “intelligent” humans.

No great white shark created DDT, napalm, or GMOs.

You can’t blame the internal combustion engine, greenhouse gases, or hydroelectric dams on a pit bull.

And rest assured, no non-human conjured up zoos, vivisection, veal crates, or the circus.

With the point of no return fading in the rearview mirror (or at least obscured by an SUV), the time is long overdue for all of us to recognize the real enemy just might be what we see as ‪normal.

I’d like to share one of the most crucial lessons I’ve ever learned as an activist: The most fundamental male privilege is remaining unaware of male privilege. Wake up and join the struggle.

It takes no extra time to choose solidarity instead of privilege. The payoff for this transition is not only a richer, more compassionate life for yourself but also, a deeper commitment to collective liberation. #shifthappens

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If you agree we need way more activism and way more active activists, please support Occupy this Book: Mickey Z. on Activism by writing a 5-star review (at this link). And while you’re there, feel free to order yerself a copy!

it’s not enough to shave yer head and pound the doors of the asylum, begging for less…to be like artaud or rimbaud? who knows? the price you pay is impossible to predict but the feedback is a real bonus. seasons fly, sunsets take new meaning, liberating visions long repressed by fear, repressed by money, repressed by the need to repress. i’ve lost some perspective for sure but it’s a fair trade when i consider the insight, the against-the-rules rebellion which (almost) seems to stave off mortality. it’s not enough to think of death when life is a kind of death and a nice one at that. noise, smoke, flesh, assaulting the soul. always there but only now perceived. it’s not enough to abstain, to put one’s foot through the screen, it’s not enough to indulge in self-exploration, what of the other selves? art is dead. art is a three letter word. utter it with reverence but don’t take yerself so seriously. too many before have forgotten to laugh and that’s where it all went wrong. don’t forget the fun, the waves, the jokes, the natural highs—don’t forget the beauty of words laid together in the just the right order, the strength of an image seen at just the right angle, the glory of a principle shared at just the right moment. caught between the tides, i ride the crests and troughs, i swallow some water, i tire, i even wonder about purpose, but mostly, i hustle on and on and on. it’s not enough to hustle when yer brain waves are scrambled and yer values are assaulted and the whole damn world sees the left with their right eye and the right with the wrong eye. it’s not enough to yearn when there’s so much to do, to love, to see, to share, to change. why else would those who came before have left all this for us? the ideas, the mistakes, the words, the passion—misguided or true, the passion is still there for a reason. it’s not enough to reason, we need spontaneity, we need spur-of-the-moment folly and no more blinders. it’s not enough to see, we must see again and differently each and every time. call it a dream, call it a privilege, but whatever you call it: it’s not enough.

“What makes him different is his dimpled defiance. With his villainous arched eyebrows, he’s fierce looking. Yet he’s as sweet as apple pie and as polite as a preacher. His firepower is in his pen and his photos.”